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The Middling City is ablow with new fluffy accumulation, this day Yours Truly is to document the announcing of government money to preserve some fine old buildings around Johnson Park. The announcement and procs happen later today at New Phoenix Theatre, teeming with history and preservation needs itself.
Last night's gig was shooting production stills for Arthur Miller's A View from the Bridge, a heavy story loaded with immigrants, incestual lustings, poverty, in no particular order. One of the male leads, before start time, was standing next to me as I was seated in the front row, waiting. He asked if his costumely coat and hat were nearby and YT noted that they were on the seat next to me - I thought he was being a wacky actor. He said I am blind without my glasses. Someone else pointed out the costume parts and then YT asked So how do you get off and on stage. Apparently, he aims for the highlights, follows the voices.
And still yet, before the drama unfolded, a voice from above instructed one from backstage to meet a woman halfway across the stage for a gray, bentwood chair. The woman and chair appeared, the two met halfway and the chair was handed over. They returned to backstage left and right, respectively. I turned and asked Brendan Is this part of the show. There was minor discussion that that had been a parfait Beckett moment. And it was.
You see, no matter the day, the location, the situation, One can always find the beautiful Beckett shinings.
On a literary note, my poem for Creeley appears this pending Sunday in the MCNews - Believe., about his words sticking in the world, and oso much more.

Believe., Love., Believe.

*This just in from poetry editor RDPohl:

Dear Nancy,

Thanks for writing. Just want to let you that I'm probably going use "Believe" on the May 7th Poetry Page, as that will coincide with the UB/Just Buffalo/Hallwalls/Talking Leaves celebration of what would have been Bob's 80th birthday on May 21. I hope this is OK with you.

This image is from Friday night's gig and Your Perfect Heroine is in a dance studio where students are learning to salsa. Me, I dig salsa just fine, from time to time, despite the tomato component - it's dance salsa that kicks me in the ass, harder than a couple of tomatoes. These students heard direction and off they'd salsa ... with partners. The instructress asked if I would mind participating, as they were short on femmes.
I got out of that one, happily for the feet of one of the male students.
Received some mail today from Dem National H.Q. - an appeal masking as a survey.
I like this question, under Part V: Foreign Policy.
How comfortable do you feel with the President's handling of the War in Iraq?
( ) Very Comfortable
( ) Slightly Uncomfortable
( ) Somewhat Comfortable
( ) Very Uncomfortable.
Comfort. Feelings.
My answer: Regarding the Presidential Handling on War Matters I find myself feeling very uncomfortable, way less comfortable than I am on my Aeron office chair. And no roadside threats, to boot.
Today's second gig found Yours Truly ensnared in a medical school maze that brought me alongside a very long hallway devoted to storing corpse holders/cozies for Gross Anatomy. I felt I might chance upon one with the top down, the chicken-looking skin exposed, wondered how I might feel in that Witkin moment. It did not happen, just the long line of stainless conveyors of dead for research like a used car lot - sans happy flapping flags.

Happy, flapping Love.

To be filed under L, as in Lynch, David.
There is a rather unspoken Middling City rule that no denizen is to crit too harshly any institution - cultural or landmark - within city limits. General urban demise and corruption are fine, just not the former. You will hear whispers of some thing/place not being très wonderful but there is such an underdog undercurrent that it seems there's a meme that if any soothsaying happens complete implosion might ensue.
Lest you yearn for a tip-off, I speak in part of the dreadful Hotel Lenox where last night's Squeaky Wheel event happened. The world is dotted with gorgeous hotels that, when successful, merge the best of functionality and architectural form, with the bonus (usually) of a fine in situ restaurant and complimentary and noteworthy periodicals.
The Lenox has been an eyesore for a long time with its decrepit sign, seedy lobby with filthy furniture and just on and on. Once I saw a photograph made just after the Lenox went up and noted the façade must have been updated some time in the 40s or 50s - and, in the process, ruined. Like the equally-tragic Hotel Lafayette, the Lenox stumbles along but is not the jewel it should be. But there are attempts in the Lenox: Nina Freudenheim made a respectable gallery on the ground floor, there are rooms being refurbished. But the hallways to that newly-sanded and newly-painted room are David Lynch-worthy with curious combos of faded-out carpeting, old light fixtures, mix-and-match mirrors, and (this comes up later) faulty elevators.
Yesterday a volunteer helped me hang seamless on a window and wall and she told me she's an interior design student. I said she should make the Lenox Hotel a project and then we looked around the lobby. We agreed, where would one start.
Of special note was the staffer who, as I was setting up, came by with a spray bottle of something, squirting all over the place and into the corners. She came to my portion of the lobby and sprayed as she made a circle around me. It's Febreze, she said. I thanked her.
So last night at the end of the event, sort of, Annie and I wended our way about. I needed to get back to my photo booth and left her and Michele and Gary on 8. Having heard several times as I set up various Lenox residents inquire if the elevators were working I opted for the stairs back down.
On 6, as I walked across the hallway to the down stairwell, I saw the elevator doors open and then noted that the elevator had stopped three feet below the floor. A guy held open the doors as I reached and helped half the elevator entrappedees get the hell out. Half did not need help. I asked if any of them had panicked or freaked out or called anyone on their cell phones. They all said No.
A maintenance guy showed up, glass of red wine in his hands. He handed that off to a stranger as he looked up into the gears. I looked with him. Let's just say that when one sees the tiny combination of gears and bike chain and dusty other parts that keep an elevator up (at least in the Lenox), one may opt for stairs.
Other notable moments include getting faux tattooes from Tony Conrad and his petite French helper Maria up in one of the more seedy suites and then discovering a small metal door that would give a plumber or onsite maintenance guy, if there were ones, oh, there was one, access to plumbing for repair. But it was a parfait Being John Malkovitch portal and I pretended to go down into it, while also trying to spy some long-forgotten treasure down in the crud.
There was another odd moment. Annie and I got a tour of a fixed-up room on 4. A real estate type was in there, chirping about the wonders of living at The Lenox. The restaurant will be reopening. Free basic cable. It was not very cheap but was, by Shiney Apple standards, a lot of basic space for a good price. And a fine view. But there was that feeling in the air, the I'm not as psyched about all this hoopla as I think you think I am supposed to be feeling.
Onwards to a lot of work at hand.

Hand me Love.

By now, this gray-skied day the Foster Kid Expo chalk&talk, deft slide presentation about hot photo tips, should have been completed. Only, mere moments after completing the slide show, the contact lady called to inform me, dig this, that the Expo attendees really wanted to discover how to acquire Foster kids, not glean hot photo tips. So that didn't happen and Yours Truly is on to the next matter at hand, readying my Polaroid photo booth for tonight's Squeaky Wheel benefit, entitled Peep Show. It's to be all about, shocker, love and sex and whatever other political issues installation artists wish to slay. I am making my fun and interactive Peep Shots, outfitted with some props, captions, and oso much more. Wondering how the Hotel Lenox staffers will feel about me taping crap up all over their abused wooden walls. As well as their large plate glass window. But if yesterday was any indication, the staff may be in drug stupours as YT wandered in, stood in my to-become installation space for a good fifteen minutes, checking outlet locations, touching walls like a lost and blind person and none of the employees ever asked Uhhh, lady, you need help. Or Uhhh, what in hell is up with the touching the wall thing.
Time to compile, leave, set up, collect money for Squeaky Wheel, as well as yet more party scenario memories.

Scenic and Installed Love.

Bandmate Scott's band, or some formation thereof, is going to appear on Love, the Greg Sterlace show replacement next month. And for the occasion the band is all geared up regarding decibels, video projections and oso much more. Wondering if pyros and spandex may also be involved.
To be filed under S as in Shocking . . . or So Outta Touch.
A non-loyal epinw reader of sorts last evening commented upon the self-focused nature of epinw. A blog. Yours Truly repeats - a freakin' blog. What is the title of this Perfect blog, I ask You. Correct - it focuses on all the fiascoes, the triumphs, the odd sightings in this world. Not YOUR world, My world. Thanks for your attention in this matter and, really, if this irritates you then shove off and read something less Perfect. Onwards. Oh, but first.
As you will correctly find foremost in Your own Perfect memory bank, epinw does seem, from time to time, to also examine and feature frequent appearances by a rag-tag cast of characters, including: adrenaline-raising editors, rodents of note, JW,Esq., erstwhile and hard-partying respectable member of corporate society, Sterlace, politicoes, boy colleagues, pals, and the odder denizens of the Middling City.
On a differing note.
Cheney's Got a Gun-style t-shirts are still hotties on cafepress.
Time to wend back to Land O'Meetings and suchlike.

Like, such Love.

Got an email from Harold last night, him musing on his Vegas junket still in progress. He had just watched gondoliers (yeah yeah in quotes) downstairs on the canal, You know, the one under the ever-changing sky sans planes, acid rain, birds and the like. Can one ever think of Vegas without opining about what is real or not. I think not. And I remarked about my two days there witnessing, literally & journalistically, many weddings as Yours Truly would, at most of these affairs, be the sole person in attendance/the audience and would be asked to be a witness. And in the beginning (no, not the word became flesh) I thought it was cheeseball, faux, plastic (well there were many wedding chapels featuring plastic cakes that couples could pose with - for a fee), sad. But gradually I thought This is no less real or fake than any other wedding. As I'm sure some soul singer crooned (I fantastically paraphrase) If it is love and passion then it is like so real, baby, so real.
Speaking of real v. fake and all, YT is embarking shortly to photograph the annual Middling City U engineering student contest of designing and then destroying tiny bridges to see which team can create the strongest fake little bridge. And, as if that were not enough, there is a bonus event - the annual and much-loved egg drop contest whereby engineering students design contraptions and containers to drop eggs and - hopefully - not end up with non-intact eggs.

Faux v. Real Love.

* This just in, from YT.
I heard from my beloved Rio that the sponge candy that I sent down to KY for her and her famille (that would be also-beloved Ron and their two perfect children) was not a raging success. Well, to further elucidate. SHE is enjoying the sponge candy to an orgasmic degree and is actually hoarding it whereas her roomies so to speak do not see what the hoopla is all about, them not originating from the environs of the Middling City. Those from the MC as well as certain corners of Pennsyltucky love les bonbons eponges whereas les autres say what is le grand deal stinké.

Important lesson gleaned by Yours Tuly a few days ago involving a case of champagne and a delicate houseplant of African Mask variety. Attempting to shop like one shops in the Shiney Apple within the boundaries of the Middling City, tragedy ensued. You see, in the Shiney Apple one moves from one store to another whilst weighed down with baggage - both emotional and mercantile. Nobody looks at you oddly when you waddle through their shoppe doors in such a condition. Now, mind You, if one were to purchase a case of champagne in the Shiney Apple one would sensibly have it delivered, but YT digresses. So I am meandering from one shop to another in the same plaza and, in lieu of moving the car, decide to move instead a cart with lamp shade and aforementioned African Mask to get champagne. Bumping back out to car the case shifts and tragedy befalls plant. Moral: When in the Middling City, adopt appropriate MCesque shopping practices for sometimes what works in the Shiney Apple, however modified, is one large flaming fiasco on the state's left side.
Time to wend again towards a moderne dance troupe and document their twirls and such.

Twirling, sashaying Love.

What sort of began as self-amusement has become a fab piece of merch by Yours Truly and it will be uploaded shortly onto my favoured merchstop, cafepress.com.
Being no PhotoShop wiz, humbly admitted, I am still trying to incorporate a good rendering of the NYT illustration of where Cheney's pal, Whittington, endured the buckshot blast.
And another thing.
For the fete/feast of Valentine dungeness crab was ordered, they were to be nude. They arrived in all their armorous glory.
Upshot: delicious but my hands suffered in the battle to wrangle them into the pan.
Moral: the sea always wins.

The sea, Love.

Yours Truly just discovered a gorgeous mystery bouquet of roses at the door. No card.
If You are the sender, thank you beaucouply.
Following is my annual saintly analysis of Saint Valentine, ol' Mysterioso.
As You epinw fans do know, Valentine remains a special combo platter, an amalgamation of two persons, possibly both saints – a veritable tag team of lovelorn, perhaps matchmaking, men of circa 269, to be rather exact in a circa fashion.
According to the yellowed Dictionary of Saints in the collection, Valentine had not a dangblamed thing to do with courting couples but, rather, in some geographical places birds court each other this very day. Courting birds. . . courting couples. Birds of a feather. . . commercialization.
Makes complete and utter sense to YT.
Geo-san moments ago reminded me of the glories of the Acme HeartMaker, a bona fide (since we are also speaking of saintly matters) treat.
As I blog I should like to note my excellent, Valentine (whomever the h.e.l.l. he really is, somewhere)-approved cd choices: a compilation (who says friend-made compilations are like so dead) of love-ly tunes by Reese, as well as a comp of re-done classic love tunes acquired yesterday at Starbucks. The re-do of the Smiths's (lovingly referred to by me as Smiffs) There Is a Light That Never Goes Out is remarkable.
Lisa Forrest sent a beautiful VDay poem today to her friends.
Geo-san also turned me onto this, go there at once.

All my Love, imagined & possible.

The Danish bomb. So this is what all the hoopla is about, lest You have not seen it, as Yours Truly did not - until moments ago. Yesterday there was a radio tale that several editors and a reporter walked off NYPress because their higher-ups believed any curiosity-seeking reader should google this to have a peek.

From the GM of NYP, Peter Polimino:

New York Press takes our responsibility to our community as a “Free Press” very seriously. We came to the same conclusion as many other responsible newspapers and media outlets that have chosen to not run the Danish cartoons. We felt the images were not critical for the editorial content to have merit, would not hinder our readers from making an informed opinion and only served to further fan the flame of a volatile situation.

And from the former editor, Harry Siegel:
We have no desire to be free speech martyrs, but it would have been nakedly hypocritical to avoid the same cartoons we'd criticized others for not running, cartoons that however absurdly have inspired arson, kidnapping and murder and forced cartoonists in at least two continents to go into hiding. Editors have already been forced to leave papers in Jordan and France for having run these cartoons. We have no illusions about the power of the Press (NY Press, we mean), but even on the far margins of the world-historical stage, we are not willing to side with the enemies of the values we hold dear, a free press not least among them.

YT has a long history of working with alternative publications and found this story, given the sad state of first amendment rights in this wartime, under the auspices of an unbalanced prez and the fearfulness of speaking out, epinw-worthy.

No Love for censorship.

PS: and if YT ever shoots a pal of hers, I do hope that it will be referred to as one Mishap, as the shooting of Cheney's hunting buddy by himself was in the NYT.
&
*This just in via epinw LeftCoast Correspondent JW,Esq:
He tells me that tomorrow, for the date commemorating the life + times of mysterious Saint Valentine, he's attending this affair.
The Middlling City could use its own v of the pillow fight. Niagara Square.

Last night I co-co-hosted the Greg Sterlace show with Paula and from the moment of my arrival at Home of the Future I thought Wow, this is going to be one. . . how shall Yours Truly say. . . odd show. And my hunch was right on, the show featuring, amongst other things, a warbling guitar player with total recall of every time he's met YT (to the point that I regaled Paula with the recent email about one of the Middling City's most ranting weirdos and my suspicion that this could be, theoretically, one and the same - he was not, as I later realized), an earnest femme poet, GS removing his shirt and tucking himself under Paula's dress for an interminable amount of time, and on.
YT hosts - I repeat - hosts the show on March 10th and I think I'm dubbing it LoveFest as a wry ref to the mag I founded and published during fourth grade - Love Magazine. A hit.
I've already lined up a few grand guests and have to speak to BandmateScott about performing on LoveFest.
This is how I described the GS show to one of my pending guests: Kind of a show about nothing. I'll give you beers. (he went for the bribe)
And now one of my patented sayings:
Time to g.o. go.

Going Love.

So things have taken a turn toward Interesting, at the corner of Serendipity.
As in last evening's forwarding of nutty bumpersness of the strange man rantings in the bar via the art student. We emailed to and fro about not-so-fun facts and ultimately, or penultimately, I wrote Let's end this more positively, let's tell each other what we're doing as creative people.
So we did. Suddenly Yours Truly had a fab idea so I wrote the student back and said
Let's collaborate on an art project of sorts
and YT also wondered if he could be my roadie, my tech support for the pending art project in June when I'll be projecting some elemental images far and wide in a historic Middling City church that teeters on transcendentalism (i.e. not too heavy on the schtick, if You catch me).
Moral: make weird and bad, despite their kicking and screaming, be something good, even delving upwards into the realms of art, if possible.
Call me the lion tamestress of beasts weird, bad, and ferocious.

Taming Love.

This just in from BizarroLand.

Hi nancy,sorry to bug you, you dont know me. my name is (omitted by Yours Truly), im a film/photography student at UB. i thought i would tell you something strange that happened to me last night...
i was out at a bar with some friends and had my camera on me. this very strange man who was obviously drunk and possibly more came up to
me freaking out. he kept asking me if i was 'nancy parisi'. he had long grayish hair and glasses. he told me he was a felon and that he
would kill me. he kept asking me if i was you... he was quite strange....he told me that he thought i was pretty and
would say all these sexually explicit things he wanted to do to me, and then he would tell me that if i am involved with YOU he would
track me down and murder me. he tried kissing me, holding me, and then asked me to fight. he told me many times that he would kill me, but he
was clearly not in a clear state of mind and i didnt take him very seriously....he couldnt even stand up straight.it doesnt bother me, im not upset or anything, i just found it
bizarre. i recognized your name, and thought i would tell you....haha.

haha.
I did write this alleged student, harbinger
of wack behaviour (and possible practioner of same) to inquire thusly: How in H-E-double hockey sticks
did you get my email address.
Onwards.
Time to meander off to Foster Kid event #2 in a series of 3 and then
points beyond.
Had a pharmaceutically-related gig today, shooting some reps from the ill-fated
Pfizer Corp making nice, spreading robust karma by tossing millions at
the university for yet another center/centre of excellence.
Philosophical quest(ion): do so many centres of fabness dilute the excellent
powers.

Fab, undiluted Love.

Here he is. Who, You ask. Ridge Lee Larry, fercrissakes, the rodent prognosticator of Middling City U who Yours Truly photographed last Thursday. Note the green grass behind RL Larry. Today the MC is coated in beautiful flakes of wintry goodness. According to RL Larry, who did not see his shadow, spring is a stone's throw. Meanwhile, back at the weathered ranch, down south that is, in PA, RL Larry's mentor Phil did see his shadow. I might add here that Larry is deader than a doorknob, taxidermied if You will, and his chin strap is not under his chin, as he has no chin, but in his mouth. Is this dignity, I ask You.
So JW,Esq., being a big epinw booster, reads my touting of I Will Survive recently and sent me a little QT movie of a JC-looking character (NB: middle eastern, thick-bodied, not a CK-lookin' boy) lip-synching away to the same tune, ultimately meeting a sad end via a big city bus. And he informs me that he's heading to South America. Kennedy and I watched A Fish Called Wanda last night and now I believe JW,Esq., despite the Esq., is running from the law.
Out to a delivery of work, a show&tell of artwork, points beyond.

Signed, sealed, delivered Love.

Yours Truly first recalls writing a poem in the garden of her parents, and it was about forget-me-nots. Today the first of the duo of pomes pennyeach hit the stands via Middling City News. Here's Your link to it.
Next month, first Sunday of mars, is the Creeleypome, printed in honour of the year anniversary of his sneaky TX dying.
HAPPY SNOOPY BOWL today!

Cartoons of Yore Love.

*This just in, from Jerry Mead:
"Nancy - Just read your poem "Valentine" in the Buffalo News - How cool was that... - Could
you become more fabulous? You just did! Congrats-Jerry."
Super bonus points for Jerry!

Caught up with Leah today over tea at the teahouse and stayed on to work on the ol' laptop. Georgisan phoned then he and Simon came to visit. They were looking for MattK and I said Well, you just missed Leah, Matt's apparently dogracing in Montana. They expressed as much disbelief as I had, but it's true. Had plans to see Liz at Thursday's hangout and told the guys to see me there. They arrived as I was trying to redesign my business card and after I got yet another haircut to fix the previous cut that had zero flow. Both Geo and Simon say they liked the previous, that it did have flow. Went to salon that Teahouse Jen suggested next door and gave the guy some parameters - I want flow, I want sexy, I'm growing this out, and you have twenty minutes. He did it.
Time to rush out to Middling City U for a gig and then many points beyond.

Flowing, hairy Love.

Homework assignment:
1. Drink too much
a. coffee
b. alcohol
2. Make a quick list (jot, if you will) of various members of the rodent genus.
3. Ponder differences (biologically, aesthetically, sociopolitically) between different rodent species and write 50 words on why one may favour one species over another.
4. Look at image above. If this groundhog were your pet what would her/his name be?
5. Bonus question: Why are rodents cuter than birds? (worth 10 points)

Yours truly is off to photograph the Middling City v of Groundhog Day. Good ol' taxidermied Ridge Lee Larry, festooned in his annual hat and sash, will once again emerge from the bowels of the Geology Department at MCU to maybe see a shadow, to maybe fall over, to just take in the fresh air and loving looks of those gathered in the parking lot where show/magic happens.

Magical Love.

UNABASHEDLY
and I do mean un-fuhreakin-bash-edly listening to disco. Disco. And Goria Gaynor's I Will Survive (although co-opted by millions of dragqueens and I can envision all the merry lip-synched versions I have seen of this anthemic beaty tune onstage, accompanied by boas and the like, is so Everygirl) is on right now and I just got up from the office chair to do some hai-karate kicks.
This just in:
Received email today informing Yours Truly that YT appears inside a sonic relelase by The Spoons. Apparently I'm holding one of my cameras, am in the pit of one of their shows.
Fame by Irene Cara (you see, it's a greatest of the Disco hits), appropriately enough, is like so on right now.

Dance Fever, Love.

Had a most pleasant DIY car inspection experience today, just like days of yore when Yours Truly drove questionable vehicles and would arrive on the scene at an equally questionable car repair shop where you'd be asked It's a good car - to which the reply would/should be Ohh, yes, it's a great car and then there'd be an exchange of some cash for a sticker, which would be affixed not by said inspector but by the faux-inspectee.
So I arrived as scheduled and there was a look-over and, with a mere 16K on the odometer, I was put in charge of filling in all the numbers and such on the computer which apparently is linked to some wired NYS office of inspectional matters.
No pesky car on lift, no removal of any car tires for brake look-see. With socializing the visit was about 45 minutes, far more efficient than the hour+ a down&dirty inspection would be.
Onwards.
Today was a day of official business accomplished and to celebrate YT purchased her first-ever (and probably only-ever eyelash curler).
After all that motorheading about I think subconsciously I needed a good girlie fix.

Motorhead/Girlie Love.